


I've got you

by Airafleeza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airafleeza/pseuds/Airafleeza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns and John reacts in a way that wasn't fully considered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've got you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yaomao](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=yaomao).



> Alright! So, this is numbero uno of my ficlet requests I'm doing to sort of warm up with writing. Hopefully I can become comfortable enough to start posting my fics on a regular basis. If this has typos and errors that's because I'm a dumb.
> 
> My prompt was, "Sherlock returns and John has a ragefit and slaps Sherlock and then suddenly kisses him passionately, crying all the while."

It was hardly a kiss as John mumbled and blubbered, releasing harsh breaths only to drily suck them back in. It was a slow process. _In and out. In and out._ He concentrated on this and not the bruised man standing in front of him who was clearly in shock.

Sherlock’s face was red for a multitude of reasons. One was planned; John knew if he ever saw him again, he would hit Sherlock. And John would do his God damned best to make sure it hurt. Second reason, however, was not planned. John counted on being angry, relieved, happy—all those years ago at Sherlock’s grave when John begged, John pleaded with Sherlock not to be dead, John could only assume what he’d feel. John didn’t think he’d find Sherlock on the street, lurking near John’s favorite pub. John didn’t expect to find Sherlock looking gaunt, broken and beaten. He didn’t expect his arms to reach out and gently pull Sherlock close as if to apologize for the hit, and then to—

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” John admitted, running his hand through his gray hair, glossy eyes glancing away. He was breathless. “I don’t know if I should… hit you again, or—“

“I’m fine,” Sherlock responded. John listened to his large feet shuffle on the cluttered alley ground. John vaguely remembers thinking, _I didn’t ask you, you arrogant sod_ but that’s forgotten when Sherlock told John he should probably go to the hospital anyway.

“Come off it,” John turned to him, arms raised defensively as a humorless, withering laugh escaped. “I hardly hit you. I was in so much bloody shock I hardly—” He stopped, the dim lamplight revealing Sherlock clenching his side, slightly hunched over.

John forgot the salt trails on his cheeks, forgot the three years, ignored the fact he just kissed his best friend. Sherlock was warm, nearly feverish— his waist was thinner, a weak point in his long frame. John grabbed him in support, feeling like if he gripped too tight, Sherlock would snap in two. John hears comments about stitches probably being popped, about Moriarty, about the Middle East and then America.  

Sherlock is just as breathless as John, and suddenly, everything feels ridiculous. Sherlock must have agreed because he weakly chuckled, and John rubbed his own tired face, trying to cover up a modest smile.

 _I’ve got you,_ becomes John’s mantra, his way of keeping himself grounded _. I’ve got you._


End file.
